


You Ain't Getting Any Younger (Are You?)

by requitedskittles



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Break Up, Didn't Know They Were Dating, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pack Bonding, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 13:38:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3122228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/requitedskittles/pseuds/requitedskittles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With some help and annoying commentary from his pack, Scott starts to realize his feelings for Stiles aren't platonic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Ain't Getting Any Younger (Are You?)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song by Seinabo Sey.

“I need advice,” Stiles says, no hello or how are you as a lead in. He’s increasingly abrupt this way, like he doesn’t think they have time to stretch anything out. It worries Scott. He won’t say that out loud, but – yeah, it’s a matter of concern.

“What about?” Scott asks, because he likes to do the reverse of Stiles in these situations. 

“Malia said she wants to have sex with other people and I can’t figure out if she means with me there too.”

Scott’s resolutely not shocked. He closes the book, presses his hands together.

Okay, he’s a little shocked. 

“You could ask her?”

“Yeah, but I’m afraid of the answer. What if it’s no? What if it’s yes?”

Scott takes a breath, considers his answer. “If it’s no, you respect that she wants space and if it’s yes, you try to determine if polyamory is for you.”

“Last year you didn’t know the difference between bestiality and the bestiary and now you’re there spouting words like polyamory,” Stiles says with raised eyebrows. 

“There’s this thing people do called learning. You should try it some time.”

Stiles brushes off his sarcasm. He always does, discounting it because it isn’t as ever-present as his own. Scott’s gotten over being offended.

“Kira taught you, didn’t she?” 

“She gave me pointers, after she told me she was asexual with bi-romantic tendencies. Mostly because girls really don’t like it when you ask them if they’re amoebas.”

Stiles looks about ten seconds away from laughing, so Scott beats him to it, shrugging casually. He actually still feels terrible about it, can keenly remember Kira’s look of complete and soul-crushing disappointment. She’d thought he was being flippant and he hadn’t known how to explain that he wasn’t. She knows now, he hopes, that he was ignorant in the sense that he literally didn’t know, rather than deliberately being a jerk. She knows, but she’s still sort of reserved around him sometimes.

“So you think I should have a threesome if that’s what Malia’s suggesting?” Stiles asks tapping the tips of his fingers against Scott’s knee. Scott likes the touch, the easy familiarity, how Stiles is in rhythm with his heartbeat by accident.

“I think it’s your decision and probably partially depends on who she wants to have a threesome with.”

“Okay. Thanks, Scott,” Stiles says, standing up and ruffling a hand through Scott’s hair. Scott cranes into the movement, headbutting Stiles’ palm.

He looks up at Stiles, wishes he’d stay longer. They never seem to be together for long enough these days. He thinks warmly of entire weekends spent in boxer shorts and t-shirts, playing Halo or Mario Kart, or Guitar Hero. 

“Any time.”

*

He’s typing up a comparative essay about _Lord of the Flies_ , _Battle Royale, The Hunger Games_ and _The Maze Runner_ , about the differences in external forces on self-determination and community. He may have bitten off more than he can chew.

“She didn’t want me involved,” Stiles says, climbing through his window. Within ten seconds he’s stealing a slice of Scott’s cheese, discarding the cracker, and crunching down with a contemplative expression. Scott doesn’t have to ask what he’s referring to. 

“You don’t look heartbroken,” Scott says. He says it rather than asking, because Stiles always answers more truthfully when he doesn’t think he’s being interrogated.

“I’m not,” Stiles replies, sounding just as confused as Scott feels. “I’m relieved.” He winces. “That sounds awful. Pretend I never said that.”

“You can be honest with me,” Scott reminds him, gently.

“Sure, I _could_. I also couldn’t easily lie,” Stiles says, stealing another slice of cheese. Scott just pushes the plate closer to Stiles. He’s more curious than hungry anyways. Stiles rolls the computer chair closer, settles down. “I don’t know why I’m not more disappointed. If you asked me five days ago whether I love Malia my answer would be yes, absolutely. Hell, if you asked me that five minutes ago, I can’t see the answer changing. So why am I okay with this?”

“Maybe because you recognize it’s something she needs. You love her enough to let her go.”

“Isn’t that just being too weak to fight for her?”

“You think I was being weak with Allison? With Kira?” Scott asks quietly. 

Stiles’ eyes widen, but he doesn’t apologize or backtrack. He bites through Scott’s plate of snack foods, until there’s nothing but the plate left. 

“Would you take me somewhere to cheer me up?”

Scott looks at his essay, then back to Stiles. “You’re not even that upset.”

“Work with me here, buddy. I’m suffering through an existential crisis. I’m discovering I don’t love people the way romantic comedies, books and TV shows tell me I should.”

“You ever consider that might be a good thing?”

Stiles blinks at him. “Feed me.”

Scott turns to his essay, sighs, and gets up to put on more outside-appropriate clothes. This is Stiles’ first official break-up and he needs his support, and if he’s a little shamefully happy that Stiles has come to him for comfort, that’s neither here nor there. 

*

Scott takes him to the one pizzeria in Beacon Hills that’s actually owned by an Italian family, is given a whole pie for free. 

“How is this happening?” Stiles asks, looking at the loaded pepperoni and cheese like it’s the second coming.

“I saved Frannie’s hamster’s life,” Scott says with what he hopes seems like a humble duck of his head. He then remembers he’s talking to Stiles, who’s looking at him with a piercing stare. He sees right through Scott’s attempts at humility and doesn’t care for them one iota.

“You get free pizza and you’re only telling me now? What other perks do you get that I’ve never benefited from?”

“Half-price scuba gear from Dan’s Diving, one movie ticket a month at children’s pricing from the cinema that shows foreign language films, yearly $20 gift certificates from Clutch Those Heels, staples and paperclips from that new office supplies store Clamp It, plus all the tongue depressors I could ever want, but that’s ‘cause of mom. I don’t usually take advantage.”

Stiles waves his hands around, a slice of pizza hanging by the grip of his teeth. “This is unconscionable,” he mumbles. It’s disgustingly endearing. 

Scott holds the slice up for him, nudges into his side. “Enjoy your pizza and stop complaining. I’ll get you a snorkle, some pumps and some crocodile clips if you want. Add in some band-aids. You can make a mini trebuchet, pretend you’re MacGyver.”

Stiles nudges back into him, bats his hand away. “Scotty, you’re taking me to the movies.”

“Okay, but your Spanish sucks and my French is worse.”

“That’s why they invented subtitles.”

*

The cinema is closed when they get there, so they walk back to Scott’s place and make a plan for next weekend. Scott reels Stiles in for a one-armed hug and is a little surprised by how fiercely Stiles returns it. 

“You’ll be all right,” Scott says, rubbing between his shoulder-blades. “I got you.”

“Yeah man, always,” Stiles says back, eyes a little damper than before. His smile is weak and crumbling at the edges, but he stands tall and climbs into his Jeep with his usual lack of grace. Scott waves goodbye, knowing there isn’t much he can do but wait and see what support he can give. 

He thinks about it all night; the best ways to help Stiles, fix him up, be the prop that keeps him upright.

*

Liam alternately whimpers and growls at him. Scott struggles to keep him in his hold. Derek huffs out a sigh. It’s just another day in Beacon Hills. 

Scott never thought he wanted siblings. He grew up being told that being an only child was the greatest. He’d never been particularly lonely because he’d always had Stiles. But it’s okay, actually, it’s not too bad, having brothers. Liam looks up to him and he’s unexpectedly always wanted to be a role model. Derek also sometimes looks up to him, and that’s bizarre, but he’s finding more and more that he admires Derek just as much. If you’d told him this ten months ago, he’d have said you were being mind-controlled. The him of ten months ago had a lot to learn. So yeah, it’s all right, being a sibling.

Which is what he needs to remind himself when Liam moans, “He’s only rushing through this because he has a date later.”

“Who with?” Derek asks, seemingly genuinely fascinated. 

Scott used to think Derek was above gossiping, but he’s slowly learning that’s far from the truth. Derek loves knowing _all_ the gossip and hates being ignorant to it. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that Derek isn’t that much older than him, that in lots of ways he’s still that scared teenager Scott met a while back, getting lured into Kate Argent’s clutches, wanting to know where his family was. It’s almost a shame that Liam’s joking. 

“Stiles,” Liam says, breaking free again and then running over to jump onto Scott’s back. 

Scott lets out a tired-sounding ‘oof’ but manfully doesn’t collapse.

“Of course. I should’ve guessed,” Derek says, ignoring Scott in lieu of helping, which was what was supposed to be happening. Scott distinctly remembers their underhanded plan of attack to teach Liam the element of surprise. 

“Hah hah, very funny, guys,” Scott says, finally deciding it’s time to have a voice in this conversation. He spins around three times to the left and then once to the right in quick succession, shaking Liam off. 

“It’s not a date?” Derek asks, sounding disappointed. Scott’s beyond confused.

“It’s _Stiles_ ,” Scott says again, trying to make his point clear.

Derek gets a sly look on his face. He’s about a subtle as a brick. “Can I come?”

“It’s a Spanish film, in Spanish.”

“I know Spanish.”

“No, you can’t come. 

Scott ignores the pointed look Liam and Derek share. They’re teasing, he knows it; he doesn’t need it right now. He picks up his backpack and gathers his things. 

Yes, he’s rushing. No, it’s not a date. It’s considerate to be early or on time. Scott always tries to be a considerate friend.

*

They walk along the darkened street away from the theater. For once, he doesn’t find himself wondering what’s lurking. He enjoys the dim light surrounding them, the way it glints off Stiles’ profile. They’re close enough they could be holding hands, but they’re not doing that, because they’re friends, and no matter how much Scott sometimes wishes hand-holding could be regarded as platonic, it’s not, and Liam and Derek have gotten him thinking about how maybe he wouldn’t want _platonic_ hand-holding with Stiles and –

He needs to distract himself.

“If you were granted a once-only offer to time travel to any point in time, when and where would you go?”

“That’s supposed to be difficult? I’d go a week before the woods fiasco and scare the shit outta myself so I don’t feel like dragging you to the Preserve to find half a dead body.”

“That would change everything,” Scott says, going for understated because he can’t articulate the sudden horror he feels over the idea.

“Yes, yes it would,” Stiles says, nodding vigorously.

“But not necessarily for the better,” Scott continues, wanting to explain, feeling like it’s necessary. “I mean, I never would’ve known to give Allison my pen so we wouldn’t have been friends, which is… I can’t think about that, okay? Not to mention Lydia never getting to know us, Kira never moving here, Malia never being brought back to humanity. And Peter might never have been stopped -- can you imagine that? Peter building up his own personal werewolf army and having total control? He’d totally take over Beacon Hills. You would’ve become a casualty of Peter’s megalomania, don’t tell me you wouldn’t. Maybe I’d’ve died of an asthma attack trying out for lacrosse before that even happened. So you shouldn’t waste your one shot for time travel on that, use it for something awesome.”

Stiles stops in the middle of the sidewalk. Scott turns around, thinking maybe he needs to apologize, to further explain that he knows their lives have been terrible in all kinds of ways, but the unknown is still scarier. Stiles doesn’t look angry, he looks vulnerable. His skin looks so pale it’s almost translucent, his lips so much redder in contrast. His eyes are dark and difficult to read. 

Stiles rushes forward, enfolding Scott in his arms, pulling him tight.

“Sti…” Scott starts.

“Don’t… say a thing,” Stiles interjects, winding his arms even tighter, nuzzling against his neck.

Scott surrenders himself to the hug, pats Stiles’ back. He likes it more than he thinks he should, having Stiles safe and secure in his arms, being held. It gives him that same whole-body awareness he’s been trying to avoid.

But he’s slightly disturbed by the hug too, because it’s indicative that Stiles has been thinking something, feeling something that’s patently _wrong_ , and Scott had no clue. Scott thought Stiles had accepted everything the same as he had, that he’d recognized that there was no point in wishing they could change everything, that for all the bad there’d also been a lot of good. 

“If you’ve been blaming yourself all this time, you’re an idiot,” Scott murmurs, rocking Stiles from side to side.

“Like you wouldn’t blame yourself in the same circumstance,” Stiles says, sounding choked, like he’s on the verge of crying. 

“Yeah, but you’re always criticizing me for being, and I quote ‘a self-sacrificing martyr who needs to understand that the world doesn’t rest on his shoulders’, so, you know, don’t be like me. I’m apparently bad enough for the both of us.”

Stiles sniffs, jostles Scott and presses a hand into his side. “That’s true.”

Scott pulls away from the hug, bops Stiles on the nose and smiles at the resulting scowl. Stiles hasn’t been crying, but his eyes are wet and his chin’s quivering a little. Scott has to suppress the urge to tut. 

“So where and when would you go?” Stiles asks, grasping Scott’s shirt-sleeve and pulling him along the street once more. 

“That’s easy. I’d go five minutes before the screening, in the projection room of the theater, and disintegrate that terrible, shitty movie, hopefully destroying the last known copy and saving the rest of humanity from ever having to witness it.”

“You didn’t even like the scene with the dog?”

“The dog _died_ , Stiles.”

Stiles makes a popping sound with his lips. “Yeah, but it was real cute up until it keeled over.”

“You’re paying for our tickets next time, full price, and we’re seeing something that guarantees a happy ending.”

“So no Ingmar Bergman?”

“The only Swedish thing I wanna be watching is the Swedish Chef, okay?”

Stiles pokes him in the side. “I like you when you’re pushy.”

*

Scott doesn’t panic when he gets home. He doesn’t freak out in the shower. He doesn’t toss and turn while trying to get to sleep. No, that all comes much later, when he wakes up from the filthiest, most deplorable, completely obscene dream about Stiles’ lips and his ass. He winces down at his sweats, uncomfortable and sticky. 

He’s had sex dreams about Stiles before. He’s a teenager. He’s had sex dreams about anatomically incorrect dolls and half-naked men and women on billboard ads. _Hell_ , he had one viscerally startling dream about his bike.

But the realism was new. (He can almost still feel it?) And the staging. (Boys’ locker room.) And his attire. (Nothing but a jock strap.) And the thing dream-Stiles did with his tongue. (Still so hot, Scott can feel his cock getting hard again.)

Scott crawls out of bed and back into the shower, thankful his mom’s on the night shift. She doesn’t need to hear his shame. Or the moans he makes as he jerks off again, reimagining laying on a bench and having Stiles tell him what a good boy he is as he eats him out. 

*

He always thought he was only seriously interested in girls. As soon as he discovered one of the many functions of his dick, he’d jerk off to thoughts of girls. Girls in bikinis. Girls in lacy lingerie. Girls in hazmat suits. 

When he was asleep he wasn’t so exclusive, granted, but his answer for that was puberty. Hence the hazmat suits. But now he’s starting to think he was being narrow-minded. Thinking about Stiles in a sexual context had opened the floodgates and he thought it was about time he ventured to see what would pour out. 

He watches a decent amount of porn. Or maybe indecent. It’s… a lot. Enough to figure out what he likes and dislikes. Enough to see his boundaries aren’t quite as tight as he figured they’d be. His lizard brain is attracted to stuff even his wolf-side finds questionable, but he’s not going to punish himself for it. He figures as long as most of it stays fantasy, or possibly between consenting individuals, it’s all right. 

*

They start to spend more time together again and Scott unabashedly loves it. He adds up the hours as the days go by and hums to himself when he realizes they haven’t gotten to hang out like this in three years. 

They all go ice skating again as a pack, which is lots of fun, but also results in Scott falling on his ass six times, because everyone always thinks Stiles is the graceless one, and he is, _on land_ , no doubt about it, but on ice it doesn’t apply, and anyways, that doesn’t mean Scott’s coordinated. Stiles starts leading him around the rink, skating backward with little effort. And, hey! Platonic hand-holding! Scott enjoys it more than is healthy. 

Malia has a new boyfriend that she invites and Scott loves her, but he also feels very protective of Stiles, so he spends a lot of time watching out for him and checking he’s okay. Stiles seems fine. He doesn’t hold a grudge. Scott’s well acquainted with spiteful, revenge-filled Stiles, and this isn’t him. He seems genuinely happy for Malia, so Scott tones done his wariness by a factor of three and commits himself to being happy for her too. 

Her new boyfriend, Elliot, is hot. Like supermodel hot. Almost as stunning as Stiles hot. Scott would almost wonder _how?_ if he didn’t remember he dated both Allison and Kira. He wonders if it’s the nemeton drawing unreasonably good looking people to Beacon Hills for some kind of Dorian Gray mystical energy druidic spellwork type thing, but then figures he’s probably being a conspiracy theorist.

Liam and Mason start to do tricks, Lydia seemingly flies through the air, Kira performs an incredible spin, Stiles follows their lead and assists Scott into a tight circle. It’s not nearly as impressive as the others, but it requires Stiles’ hands on his hips the whole time, at some points his body pressed tight. Malia and Elliot laugh at them, skating by at top speed. Scott loves being surrounded by his pack when they’re happy. 

It’s important to him, to see everyone when there’s nothing to stress about, no foes to vanquish. He gets to see what they like, what they want. He thinks by now he’s gotten a good idea about what his packmates will do in emergencies, but that doesn’t always translate well into knowing who they truly are. Being able to predict how someone will react doesn’t mean you understand why and what the consequences will be. His mom’s always said that the only way to know someone is to see them both at their weakest and their strongest, their fast and their slow, and he gets it now. 

The other patrons of the rink glare at how loud they get when Derek and Braeden bring lunch, but Scott apologizes and promises to ensure they keep it down. He’s semi-successful. 

Stiles gazes across at him as they share a plate of fries, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. He’s smug in the way he has that other people describe as insufferable, but Scott’s always adored.

“I know I suggested this was a waste of time when you suggested it, but I was wrong.”

“I thought you said no take-backs?”

“Dude, I only admit to wrongness once every blue moon. The moon is blue tonight. It’s rare that you should be happy for the moon. Accept this and shut up.”

“You’ve gotta find a better way of shutting me up than telling me, Stiles,” Scott says. He jokingly flashes his eyes and adopts an imperious tone. “I’m an alpha.”

“Alpha, alfalfa,” Stiles retorts. “I conceded temporary defeat. You never get to speak of this again.”

Scott grins at him and elects to ignore both Lydia’s and Derek’s eyebrow raises from across the table. He doesn’t need or want to tug on that thread.

After lunch, they skate some more, though Scott’s handed around the pack like a hot potato. He’s only a little disappointed. He gets to talk to everyone, learn more about Elliot, and eventually, by the end, he’s successfully skating by himself without smashing into objects, mowing down kindergarten kids, or falling on his face.

That night he has a sex dream about Elliot. It involves him pinning him down and riding him, wildly. When he awakens he feels a lot of shame. The most shame he’s felt in months. It’s like he’s hypothetically cheated on dream-Stiles. He watches porn with a guy who has freckles dotting his face, neck and shoulder to make up for it. He’s not sure he accomplishes his purpose, but he comes all over himself, so he’s good. 

*

When Scott falls for someone, he falls hard. Even when he’s trying to be cautious, like with Kira. He can’t help thinking about the object of his affection constantly. And he’s sort of always been like that, with Stiles. Before he’d think about how much he appreciated that he had Stiles as his best friend, when he seemed to have so little – no dad, no special talents, no real idea what he wanted to do with his life. And then he thought about how much he needed to protect Stiles, and how much he seemed to suck at it.

Now, he thinks about the broadness of Stiles’ shoulders and the strength of his arms. The sleekness of his waist and how easy it’d be to wrap his legs around it. He thinks about the potential softness of his mouth, the occasional suggestiveness of his gaze. He catalogs Stiles’ expressions, especially toward him, and wonders if he’s imagining the rare moments when it seems like Stiles is checking him out. 

He tries not to notice every time they touch. They’ve always been tactile with each other, and if he spends too long focusing on all the times they come into contact, he won’t have the concentration span for anything else.

But sometimes he can’t help himself. When Stiles invites him around for dinner and has him pressed up against the counter so he can reach past him, he absolutely has no choice but to think about how Stiles is encasing him, his chest rising and falling against Scott’s back, his heat and firm muscle making Scott want to arch into an embrace. It lasts the slightest of minutes, but Scott will be replaying it in his mind for years to come.

Stiles makes potato-filled pierogies for dinner, served with sour cream. It’s both homey and filling and Scott thinks next time they should invite the rest of the pack, especially since it’s such a time-consuming process, but he’s really pleased it’s only them. 

“You should cook for me all the time,” Scott says halfway through his second pierogi, not caring about etiquette. Stiles has seen worse. Stiles has done way worse.

“I thought the deal was always that you’d do the cooking? I distinctly remember that conversation when we were planning for college.”

“First of all, we were twelve when that was decreed. Second, you used to set things alight, even when there was no heat necessary. Third of all, present-day me realizes you were scamming child me. Fouth and final comment on this; I’ve gotta say, you’ve greatly improved.”

“Okay, so we’ll take turns. You do meals Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, I’ll do them Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays and on Sundays we’ll either do it together, or splurge on pizza.”

Stiles gazes at him, looking incredibly fond, and Scott’s brain short-circuits for a moment. If he could get Stiles to look at him like that once a week, he’d have the best life ever. 

“I, uh… yeah, that’d be… I mean, we should do that.”

“You’ve become Cro-Magnon, that’s so cute.”

“You’re so cute,” Scott shoots back, meaning to mock. He’s never been really good at it. It isn’t that he doesn’t know how the joke is supposed to go, it’s more that he doesn’t see the point in being cruel.

“Yeah, I am,” Stiles replies, suddenly smiling down at his own plate. 

Scott swallows down the immediate surge of _want_ that rises within him. He tries to cover it up by eating another pierogi, but he’s not sure he succeeds, because Stiles looks up at him again and he’s inquisitive, like he can sense something is amiss and expects Scott to reveal the answer. 

Scott doesn’t feel ready for that conversation yet. He wishes he was stronger, but he’s nervous. He reminds himself every day that he has nothing to be nervous about, that even if Stiles rejects him that doesn’t mean they won’t be friends. It’ll be weird for a while, but they’ve overcome all kinds of shit, so mild weirdness isn’t a catastrophe. But his rational side doesn’t always win over his irrational one, so, he’s going to keep it to himself for a while. Not too long, he hopes. 

*

Over the course of the next month, Scott gets accosted on five separate occasions by different members of the pack wanting to know “what’s up”. The overall advice seems to be that he should take a chance. 

“As much as it pains me to say this, you and Stiles fit together,” Derek says, completely out of the blue one day when they’re focusing on teaching Scott how to complete a full wolf transformation. Scott stretches out and expresses his ‘what the fuck?’ with a squint.

“Yeah, I know we do,” Scott replies. “We’re not opposites, but we’re not identical either. We’re like adjacent.”

“Complementary,” Derek interjects. “You should say that to him.”

“He knows.”

“Yeah, but does he know you want to see exactly how well you fit?” 

“Are you being lewd right now? Is that what’s happening? Do you ever wake up and think ‘I’m too invested in teenagers lives’?”

“Sure I do. And then some teenager comes crying to me because he’s gotten in over his head and I realize this is my life now. I might as well embrace it.”

Scott inhales and exhales deeply, works at his sore muscles. He’d gotten close to wolf shape, this time around. He’d been larger and hairier than ever before. He’d prefer to concentrate on that rather than romance. 

“I’m swiping out of this conversation.”

“You’re _what_?”

“Pressing the back button, clicking the x, homescreening it.”

Derek laughs. He actually laughs. “Good luck getting that to trend.”

Scott hates it when he beats him at his own game. He really does leave Derek’s loft shortly thereafter. He’s not too proud to admit it’s escape.

“Fuck him already, we’re sick of the sexual tension,” Liam moans as he eats all the food in Scott’s house three days later. 

“I’m not helping you win the bet, Liam,” Scott replies, rolling his eyes and staring up at his ceiling for a while. If only he had a room without a roof.

“How do you know about the bet?”

“Educated guess. How would you feel if I constantly told you to fuck Mason?”

“I’d feel supported,” Liam says cavalierly. “And complimented. You think Mason would ever be attracted to me? He once called me his personal troll doll for an entire month. I didn’t even know what that meant until I googled it.”

“Why do you think Stiles is attracted to me?”

Liam widens his eyes at him. He looks manic. “You’re not that oblivious. Please tell me the dude who’s supposed to be leading me in being the best me I can be isn’t totally sense impaired?”

Scott shrugs a shoulder. “You mean like five senses or common sense?”

“Both.” 

“You love him, don’t you,” Kira says a week later as they decorate a birthday cake for his mom. It isn’t a question. Malia hums, clearly agreeing with the assessment. Scott has officially decided his pack is the worst.

“I’ve always loved him.”

“Scott, an added preposition won’t deter me. I know you. You love Stiles the same way you loved me. The same way I loved you. You _love_ love him.”

“He’s really good at fucking,” Malia adds. “You should let him fuck you. Or fuck him. He likes it both ways.”

Scott isn’t scandalized. He finishes off the word ‘day’ with light purple icing, carefully carries the cake to the refrigerator.

Okay, he’s a little scandalized.

“Let me guess. I should tell Stiles how I feel?”

“Definitely.”

“Or just show him. He likes surprise fucking!”

Kira frowns at Malia, shakes her head softly but rapidly. “No, I think in this case you need to use words.”

Scott slumps in defeat. He’s been successfully worn down by his friends, on one memorable occasion by his mom, (I love you, but you’re being a dumbass, sweetie), and even Dr. Deaton, who gives him a two hour long speech about living life to the fullest and enjoying yourself while you can that Scott could have said in a simple Latin phrase. 

Scott decides he’ll do it. He’ll ask Stiles on a date.

*

Stiles seems to be doing four things at once when Scott lets himself into his room. So much so that he startles when Scott nears him, clutching his hand to his chest and yelping. 

“You’re a menace,” he growls. 

“I like to keep you on your toes,” Scott replies. He can work with a scowling Stiles. It’ll be easier than being blinded by his increasingly warm gazes and smooth touches.

“I saved a ferret yesterday.”

“There’s a sentence you don’t hear every day.”

“The owner of the ferret owns the Indian restaurant on Main St. and asked me if I wanted a free meal. I thought we could go whenever you’re available. Dress up and make a night of it.”

Stiles’ face stills and his lips part, like he’s about to start drooling. “I love Indian food.”

“Yeah, I remember the garlic naan incident of 2011. Whattaya say?”

“When’s everyone else available?”

“I haven’t invited anyone else. I’ve only invited you.”

“Oh, so it’s another bro date?”

Scott takes a settling breath, hopes he doesn’t sound agitated. “No. Nothing brotherly about it.”

Stiles swivels in his chair from side to side, popping his lips. It feels like it lasts for hours, but it’s probably fifteen seconds. “Am I mixing up signals here, or are you asking me out?”

Scott braces himself for rejection. “I’m asking you out.”

“I always thought you were straight,” Stiles says, forehead a mess of wrinkles.

“So did I, but it turns out I was wrong.”

“How long have you known?”

“A few… well… several months. Give or take a week. If knowledge wasn’t involved, I’d say years. Years where I’ve wanted to be around you and only you.” Scott sucks in another breath, can feel some sweat gathering at his temples. “You still haven’t given me an answer, by the way.”

Stiles semi-leaps forward. He hits his elbow on his desk and pulls his headphones to the floor. “Shit, sorry. Yes! Yes, I absolutely wanna go on a date with you. Fuck. How could you think I wouldn’t?”

“You never asked me out.”

“Because I thought you were straight,” Stiles says, indignant. “I told you I was bi when we were thirteen.”

“Just because you’re bi doesn’t mean you wanna date everyone and anyone.”

“True, but can’t you use your wolfy gifts to determine my receptiveness? Wait. Why are we arguing?”

“I don’t know. Why did you use the word receptiveness?”

“Because it’s more polite than pointing out I’m constantly horny around you?”

“And since when are you polite?”

Stiles opens his mouth wide. Wide enough that Scott has immediate sexual thoughts about how to put that skill to good use. He shuts it again with a snap, scratches at the back of his neck. “I can already tell this is going to be incredible.”

Scott thinks he might be right.

*

The date _is_ incredible. It’s just as awesome as all the other dates Scott realizes they’ve gone on over the last few months. The making out afterwards is even better. Stripping down and exploring Stiles’ body two weeks after that is mind-blowing. Having Stiles rim him until he's crying is somehow more than that. It’s every filthy fantasy he’s had about Stiles distilled into a pure, perfect moment and Scott wants to relive it over and over again.

The best thing is; he can.


End file.
